His gran said hed been with her all afternoon till he saw the police cars turning up the track. Then hed taken off because he couldnt stand any more questioning. No one believed her, at least not about being with her all afternoon.
Then Mr Wulfstan came home. He were like a mad thing. He came round to our house and started asking me what had happened. At first he tried to be nice and friendly, but after a bit his voice got louder and he started sounding so fierce that I began to cry. What do you mean, you dont know where she was hiding? What do you mean, you think you saw Lightfoot? What do you mean, you stopped playing and went inside to listen to the music?
By now hed got a hold of me and I was sobbing my heart out. Then Mam, whod gone out to make some tea, came rushing back in and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. Id never heard her swear before. Mr Wulfstan calmed down and said he were sorry but not sounding like he meant it, then he rushed off without having any tea. We heard later he went up to Neb Cottage and had a big row with old Mrs Lightfoot, and the police had to make him come away, and he told them it were all their fault for letting Lightfoot loose when they had him in their cells, and if anything had happened to Mary he was going to make sure every one of them suffered.
I asked my mam why he were so mad with me. She said, hes not mad with you, hes mad with himself for not taking better care of the thing he loves most in the world. I said, but its not his fault that Mary got took, and she said, aye, but he thinks it is, and thats why hes running round looking for someone else to blame. And I wondered if my dad would run around like that if I got took. Weeks passed. They didnt find Mary. And they didnt find Benny. The concert was cancelled. Arne and Inger went away. And the day came when we all had to move out of our homes.
I were glad to go. Everyone else had long faces and there were some who were wailing and moaning. Dad went around like he were looking for someone to hit and Mam, who were having one of her bad turns again, could hardly drag herself out of the house. But I sat in the back seat of the car with Bonnie held tight in my arms and bit my cheeks to stop myselfsmiling. Remember, I were only seven and I thought that grief and guilt and fear were things you could drive away from like houses and barns and fields, leaving them behind you to be drowned.
And when, as we drove down the village street for the last time, the first drops of rain wed seen in nigh on four months burst on the windscreen, I recalled Rev Disjohns Friday talk and felt sure that God was once again sending His blessed floods to cleanse a world turned foul by all our sins.
TWO
And now the sun will rise as bright
As though no horror had touched the night.
The horror affected me alone.
The sunlight illumines everyone.
Nice voice, said Peter Pascoe, his mouth full of quiche. Pity about the tuba fanfare.
That was a car horn, or cant your tin ear tell the difference? But no doubt it is Tubby the Tuba leaning on it.
Why do you think Im bolting my food? said Pascoe.
I noticed. Peter, its Sunday, its your day off. You dont have to go.
He gave her an oddly grave smile and said gently, No, I dont. But I think I will. Give you a chance for a bit of productive Sabbath-breaking.
This was a reference to Ellies writing ambitions, marked by the presence of a pad and three pens on the patio by her sunbed.
Cant concentrate in this heat, she said. Christ, the fat bastards going to rouse the whole street!
The horn was playing variations on the opening motif of Beethovens Fifth.
Pascoe, ignoring it, said, Never mind. Youre probably famous already, only they havent told you.
Ellie had written three novels, all unpublished. The third script had been with a publisher for three months. A phone call had brought the assurance that it was being seriously considered, and with it a hope that was more creatively enervating than any heat.
The doorbell rang. The fat bastard had got out of his car. Pascoe washed the quiche down with a mouthful of wine and stooped to kiss his wife. With Ellie any kiss was a proper kiss. Shed once told him she didnt mind a peck on the cheek but only if she wasnt sitting on it. Now she arched her bikinid body off the sun lounger and gave him her strenuous tongue.
The doorbell went into the carillon at the end of the 1812 Overture, accompanied by cannon-like blows of the fist against the woodwork.
Reluctantly, Pascoe pulled clear and went into the house. As he passed through the hallway, he grabbed a light cagoule. It hadnt rained for weeks, but Andy Dalziel brought out the boy scout in him.
He opened the door and said, Jesus.
Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, ever full of surprises, was wearing a Hawaiian shirt bright enough to make an eagle blink.
Always the cock-eyed optimist, he said, looking at the cagoule. Hello, whats yon? I know that tune.
This beat even the shirt. Like a child catching the strains of the Pied Piper, the Fat Man pushed past Pascoe and headed through the house to the patio where the radio was playing.
You must not dam up that dark infernal, sang the strong young mezzo voice. But drown it deep in light eternal!
Andy, said Ellie, looking up in surprise. Thought you were in a hurry. Time for a drink? Or a slice of quiche? She reached for the radio switch.
Nay, leave it. Mahler, isnt it?
With difficulty, Ellie prevented her gaze meeting her husbands.
Right, she said. Youre a fan?
Wouldnt say that. Usually in Kraut, but?
True. This is the first time Ive heard it in English.
So deep in my heart a small flame died. Hail to the joyous morningtide!
The voice faded. The music wound plangently for another half-minute then it died too.
Elizabeth Wulfstan singing the first of Mahlers Kindertotenlieder, the songs for dead children, said the announcer. A new voice to me, Charmian. Lots of promise, but what an odd choice for a first disc. And in her own translation too, I believe.
Thats right. And I agree, not many twenty-two-year-olds would want to tackle something like this, but perhaps not many twenty-two-year-olds have a voice with this kind of maturity.
Maybe so, but I still think it was a poor choice. Theres a straining after effect as if she doesnt trust the music and the words to do their share of the work. More after the break. This is Coming Out, your weekend review of the new releases.
Ellie switched off.
Andy, you OK?
The Fat Man was standing rapt, no longer Hamelin child lured away by the piper, but Scottish thane after a chat with the witches.
Nay, Im fine. Just feel like someone had walked over my grave, thats all.
This time the Pascoes gazes did meet and shared the message, itd be a bloody long walk!
He went on, Yon lass, he said her name was Wulfstan?
Thats right. Shes going to be singing in the Dales Festival. I saw the disc advertised in The Gramophone, special mail-order price, so Ive got it coming, but I might not have bothered if Id heard that review first. What do you think, Andy, being an expert? And are you sure you wont have a drink?
The gentle irony, or the repeated offer, brought Dalziel out of his reverie and for the first time his gaze acknowledged that Ellie was wearing a bikini whose cloth wouldnt have made a collar for his shirt.
Nay, lass. I know nowt about music. And theres no time for a drink. Sorry to be dragging him off on a Sunday, but.
He made dragging off sound like a physical act.
Ellie was puzzled. Three things which passeth understanding: Dalziel recognizing Mahler; Dalziel refusing a drink; Dalziel not clocking her tits straight off.
It sounds urgent, she said.
Aye, kiddie goes missing, its always urgent, he said. Wheres young Rosie?
The juxtaposition of ideas was abrupt enough to be disturbing.
Pascoe said quickly, Shes spending the weekend with a schoolfriend. Zandra with a Zed, would you believe? Zandra Purlingstone?
There was a teasing interrogative in his tone which Dalziel was on to in a flash.
Purlingstone? Not Dry-dock Purlingstones daughter? he exclaimed.
Derek Purlingstone, General Manager of Mid-Yorks Water plc, the privatized version of the old Water Board, had played down the threat of shortages when this years drought started by gently mocking the English preoccupation with bathing, adding, After all, when you want to clean a boat, you dont put it in a bath, do you? You put it in a dry dock!
There was a teasing interrogative in his tone which Dalziel was on to in a flash.
Purlingstone? Not Dry-dock Purlingstones daughter? he exclaimed.
Derek Purlingstone, General Manager of Mid-Yorks Water plc, the privatized version of the old Water Board, had played down the threat of shortages when this years drought started by gently mocking the English preoccupation with bathing, adding, After all, when you want to clean a boat, you dont put it in a bath, do you? You put it in a dry dock!
He had learned the hard way that only the sufferers are allowed to make jokes about their pain. Dalziels surprise rose from the fact that Dry-docks position and politics made him the kind of man whose company Ellie would normally have avoided like head-lice.
The same, said Pascoe. Zandras in Rosies class at Edengrove and theyve elected each other best friend.
Oh aye? With all his brass, Id have thought hed have gone private. Still, its reckoned a good school and I suppose its nice and handy, being right on his doorstep.
Dalziel spoke without malice, but Pascoe could see that Ellie was feeling provoked. Edengrove Primary, with its excellent reputation and its famous head, Miss Martindale, might lie right on Purlingstones doorstep, but it was a good four miles north of the Pascoes, while Bullgate Primary was less than a mile south. Ellie had made enquiries. Bullgate has many original and unique features, a friend in the inspectorate told her. For instance, during break, they play tiggie with hammers. After that, she made representations, with the upshot that Rosie went to Edengrove. Even with the shining example of New Labour leadership before her, Ellie felt a little exposed, and as always was ready to counterpunch before the seconds had left the ring.